Good Night
by starsareweeping
Summary: London, 1921. A boy, a Seer, a war and one very cryptic vision. Grindelwald is rising.
1. Prologue

**Summary:** London, 1924. A darkness is rising and it brings with it death and fear and destruction. Byron Trelawney, desperately trying to make a name for himself as an Auror, is sucked into the chaos of an oncoming war, trapped between what his duty asks of him and the visions of an infuriatingly cryptic Seer. It is a hard task to be a hero when you don't know how to fight for anyone but yourself.

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 _"Do not go gentle into that good night."  
_

 _Dylan Thomas_

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 **PROLOGUE**

 **23 November 1924, London**

The streets of London were deserted.

It was an uncommon sight, as usually the city was buzzing with a sort of perpetual bustle, a constant stream of mothers dragging their children from one store to the other and writers gallivanting up and down the walkways in search of inspiration. Automobiles honked at careless youngsters skipping school as throngs of chattering, well-dressed young women passed in clouds of cigarette smoke and perfume. Couples strolled along the pavement arm in arm, children traded comics for candies and shopkeepers stared longingly at the commotion from their windows.

Things were different in Fulham, of course, one of London's poorest districts. Here, daughters hung their laundry in the street if ever there was a fleeting patch of sunlight peeking through the grey clouds. Mothers called their children, running wild with dirt smudging their faces and mud staining their trousers, inside for a dinner of watery stew. Fathers trudged to and from their factories in woeful lines, their faces as dirty as their children's. Sons became hoodlums behind their parents' homes, whispering softly that anything was better than the poorhouse.

Not a soul was seen on the streets that night, however, no daughter, no mother, no father, no son. It might have been attributed to the rain, a steady pouring that had not seized for a minute in several days – but the British were accustomed to their own bad weather conditions and had learned to brave them. It was not due to the questionable nature of Fulham either. No, there was something quite different at work here, something that made the people of London retreat to their beds as soon as the sun had set, to bar their doors and shut their windows tight. There was something dark, crawling through the streets and settling around peoples' shoulders like an unfashionable shawl that could not be shaken.

Albus Dumbledore passed the houses with a sense of detached curiosity, holding an umbrella in one hand and clutching his wand in the other. His fingers had already gone slightly stiff with the chill of a November night. He noted that there were no lights in the windows of the humble stone houses, no signs of the families living in them. Fulham looked that night, for all it was worth, like a ghost town.

It was not a part of London that Dumbledore found himself in often. These days, he preferred the solitude of Hogwarts, of his office there, to the noise of roaring London with all its clubs and pubs and bars. He did, however, enjoy the colourful posters that advertised muggle products of all kinds from the walls around him, almost as much as he enjoyed a stroll down Diagon Alley. Dumbledore was fond in particular of the charming Cadbury advertisement, an absolutely delicious brand of muggle chocolate that he had become partial to.

There were no colourful posters here as he left the main road and crossed into an intercepting, smaller one. It was not much more than a narrow alleyway, ironically called Queen Victoria Lane, the houses even duller and in poorer condition than those on Main Street, a fact he had previously thought impossible. Everything was dingy, dripping with rainwater and smelling distinctly of garbage. His shoes sunk at least two inches deep into the mud with every step and made soggy noises when he tore them out of their confines.

Dumbledore stopped in front of the saddest of the houses, a dilapidated tenement building, Queen Victoria Lane Number 7, and heaved a sigh of relief. The sign announcing the house number might have once been bronze, but now it hung upside down from the mouldy stone wall, rusted and dented until it became near indiscernible. A lone candle was flickering in an upstairs window, but as Dumbledore climbed the few steps leading to the front door, it sniffed out as though extinguished by a sudden gust of wind. He closed his umbrella mindfully and stowed his wand away.

For years he had dreaded and longed for this night in equal measures and as Dumbledore finally raised his hand to knock, he found himself a little breathless. The paint of the door had always been an unattractive brown but now it was chipping and the wood felt unpleasantly yielding beneath his knuckles. He knocked once and as there was no response, moved to rap against the door again, a bit more urgency in his movement this time.

Again, nothing happened, until suddenly the crocheted curtains in the window just a few inches to his right moved and an old woman's head appeared behind the glass. Half of her face was still covered in fabric, but she looked less than pleased.

"Go away!" she crowed in an unpleasant voice that sounded like matches being stuck against the side of the box and confirmed Dumbledore's suspicions about her feelings.

"I am awfully sorry to disturb you," he called to her, "But I must speak to the Winslows."

At the mention of that name, the woman's face twisted into a grimace. "They aren't in," she bellowed and her face disappeared.

Dumbledore suppressed a sigh and fought to remain calm. "Madame, the matter is rather urgent I fear. Please let me in."

There was no answer, only the wind howling through the alley and ruffling his unfamiliar muggle coat. Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his trousers and retrieving a few coins. "I have here," he said calmly, "two pounds for you if you would do me the kindness of opening this door." He shook the money so she could hear the distinctive sound of metal clanking against metal and would know he was not lying.

He could always just cast a spell, blow the front door off its axes and then climb up the stairs to the Winslows' flat himself, but he had been raised better than that. He would not destroy an innocent woman's property to get his way.

Two pounds was probably more money than this woman had seen in all her life, so Dumbledore was not surprised when he could hear a bolt being pushed aside and the door was ripped open hastily. The woman standing in the doorway reminded him, strangely, of a Bowtruckle as her skin was withered and leathery like the bark of a tree. Her mouth seemed to be frozen in a constant downward slope that made it seem as if she had just bitten into a lemon.

"Why, thank you." Dumbledore smiled at her and made to move past her and into the house but a bony hand with yellowed fingernails shot forward, palm up, and blocked his path.

"Money first," she barked and bared her teeth at him like some kind of animal. Perhaps, Dumbledore thought, he was doing the Bowtruckle an injustice by comparing it to this woman.

He did, however, not say this out loud and instead dropped the money into her offered hand. Greedy fingers closed around the golden coins that disappeared between the folds of her skirt so fast one could think the woman was afraid Dumbledore might change his mind and demand the money back. Then, finally, she opened the door wide and beckoned for Dumbledore to step inside the house.

Inside, it was no less cold than it had been out on the street and he understood now why the woman was wearing several shawls and what looked to be an old blanket around her shoulders. It was dark and unwelcoming and the woman led him to a creaking staircase without as much as a word. She was holding a single candle in her hand, wax dripping down the side already as the flickering flame painted grotesque shadows onto the walls.

"Girls are under the roof," the woman, most likely the landlord of the house, told him as they climbed the stairs. "Cheapest flat I got here. Not that they manage to pay the rent on time, ever. It's only by the kindness of my own heart that I haven't thrown them out on the street yet."

Somehow, Dumbledore doubted that kindness had anything to do with it.

"Are you their father?" the woman asked suddenly, eyeing his well-tailored suit suspiciously. Dumbledore should have known that his expensive clothes would raise some questions. "You ain't making eyes at one of those, are you?"

He was a little taken aback by her rude forwardness but shook his head regardless. "No. Just an old friend of the family."

The woman did not look convinced, yet seemed to decide that she did not care either way. "Well, alright. I have to tell you I wouldn't let you up if you were fancying one of 'em, anyways. I have a good reputation to uphold and this is a respected, Christian household, not some... trugging house."

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably as he followed her up a second flight of stairs. His voice sounded much calmer and more collected than he felt as he answered, "Good thing you have nothing to worry about then, Madame. As I said, I am merely an old family friend."

She huffed loudly as they reached the landing, nodding towards an unassuming door. "There you go. And remind those lassies that my money's due tomorrow."

He waited until she had disappeared down the stairs, muttering profanities all the way and leaving him in darkness, before retrieving his wand and whispering _lumos_ softly. Everything was tinged in a soft yellow glow, illuminating dark spots of indeterminable nature on the wooden floor which he avoided to step in as he approached the door. For the second time that night, he knocked and listened closely for any noise. There was a low shuffling and then a whisper too quiet for him to understand, but no one answered the door.

He cleared his throat. "There is nothing to be afraid of," Dumbledore called through the door, "this is Albus Dumbledore and I only need to speak to Rosemary Winslow for a moment. May I come in?"

The instant the words had left his mouth, the door was ripped open with such force that it slammed against the wall several times. Marigold Winslow, as tall as ever, illuminated by the glow of oil lamps and wearing a muggles' nurse uniform, was a frightful sight. Her eyes seemed to be shooting fiery daggers at Dumbledore. "What," she asked, her voice ringing clearly through the hallways, "do you want from my sister?"

He registered that she was holding her wand in front of her, as if expecting an attack from him anytime and felt the sudden need to apologize for all that had happened to this family.

Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment and then pocketed his wand, showing the girl in the doorway his empty hands. "I mean you no harm. I am simply in need of your sister's abilities."

Well my sister doesn't want to talk to you," Marigold snapped back at him. "So you better leave."

"I see."

Dumbledore observed her, saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, the sunken cheeks and frizzy hair. The oldest of the Winslow sisters was only twenty four, but she looked years older than that. Grief and toil had worn deep creases into her skin and had driven the light from her eyes. Once, she had been a student of his, a bright witch with potential the likes of which were found only rarely. It had pained him when he heard that she abandoned her training at St Mungo's in the wake of their mother's death and even more so when news of the family's retreat from the wizarding world reached him. "I'm afraid this is not a matter of negotiation, Miss Winslow. Our world stands at the brink of disaster and I – all of us – need all the help available. And it just so happens that your sister can help me."

Marigold did not blink. She did not hesitate a second. Her voice was crisp and ruthless as she said, "We no longer belong to your world, Dumbledore. We have no part in this."

Dumbledore took note of the finality of her words and his heart sank as she extended her arm towards the rusted door handle, moving to shut him out. But before she ever reached it, a pale hand appeared, touching Marigold's elbow gently.

"Mary," someone said, a soft, soothing voice drifting through the night like a spell, "let him in."

Rosemary Winslow looked nothing like her sister. Marigold was tall and dark haired and exuding an air of irrevocable confidence, a warrior ready for battle. Rosemary was small and blonde and looked as though she would rather be anyplace else. The astounding relation between the two girls had been a popular choice of topic in the staff room at Hogwarts, not only because of their differences in appearance but also because you were unlikely to meet two more varied characters.

"Hello, Professor," Rosemary greeted him in that peculiar voice of hers that always carried a rather unnerving quality in it. "Would you like to come inside?"

Marigold looked exasperated, but Dumbledore elected to ignore her in favour of smiling at the younger Winslow. Relief was making him lightheaded, just a little. "Yes, Miss Winslow. That would be too kind."

She smiled and stepped to the side to make room for him, pulling her sister along with her. Marigold allowed this to happen, most likely only because she was too bewildered by the turn of events to resist. "Rosie..." she began, distress obvious in her voice before her sister cut her off.

"Oh, it's quite alright, Mary. Professor Dumbledore won't hurt us." She sent her former teacher a smile that was void of any mistrust. "I don't mind talking to him."

At those words, Dumbledore released a breath he had not been aware of holding. Perhaps he had been less sure of himself than he had let on, after all. "I'm very glad, then. I wouldn't want to force you to do anything you are opposed to."

Rosemary smiled benignly as he entered their home. "You see, Mary?" she spoke to her sister. "Professor Dumbledore was always very nice to me, he won't do anything bad."

Marigold huffed. "It was a matter of principle."

Halfway through the motion of shutting the door, Rosemary paused. "What principle?" she asked, seeming genuinely confused.

"Rosie," Marigold sighed, sounding so deeply frustrated that Dumbledore felt a new kind of pity well up within him. It was obvious that this was a conversation the sisters had had before. "We said we were done with the magical world for good and that included any wizards or witches that might come to visit. Don't you remember?"

"Oh. Right." The younger girl seemed to mull this over for a second and then her face lit up. "But that's only for the people that weren't nice to us, right? I like Professor Dumbledore." She ignored – or perhaps she simply didn't notice – her sister opening her mouth for a response and skipped towards an ancient looking hearth. "Would you like some tea?"

"Why, yes," Dumbledore answered, remembering his freezing fingers. "Tea would be wonderful."

As Rosemary went to put the kettle on and Marigold eyed him with obvious disdain, Dumbledore took the time to look around the flat. It was in even worse shape than the rest of the building, a miserable sight. Just one cramped room, the ceiling so low that he could not stand upright and instead had to crouch down slightly. The air was damp and the walls were covered in mildew, stockings and shoes of various colours and sizes strewn all over the floor. It was obvious that in the sisters' decision to abstain from the wizarding world, they had also chosen to forego any magical repairs. A table with a few untrustworthy looking chairs stood to his right and – on a large bed that was pushed against the wall beneath a stained window – a girl of no more than thirteen sat.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, smiling, "and you must be Daisy, yes?"

It was apparent when looking at Marigold and Daisy with their brown hair, dark eyes and lanky bodies that the middle Winslow girl was the odd one out. Ignored by her classmates at best and tortured by them at worst, Rosemary had always been rather odd. She had not excelled in any of her classes, not for lack of talent but rather because she simply did not seem to be interested in putting any effort into something that did not fascinate her. It had been Dumbledore's conviction while teaching her, and still was to this day, that she could have been one of the brightest witches of her class, much like her sister, if she had only tried. Sadly, her fascinations had always lain with things the majority avoided, her head rather high up in the clouds. The only subject she had consistently received the highest marks in had been, unsurprisingly, Divinations, a class that Dumbledore himself had always found to be rather dotty and useless.

How ironic, he thought, that it was such dottiness that had led him here today.

"Yes," the girl answered, resting her elbows on her knees and laying her chin in her upturned palms. She looked at him with the sort of appraising look that seemed to be a direct copy of her oldest sister's. "And you are Albus Dumbledore."

He smiled and inclined his head. "Indeed, I am. I brought you girls some candy, would you like some?"

Daisy watched him for a moment, suspicion strong in her eyes, and then she nodded and extended her hands. Awkwardly, Dumbledore fumbled for the striped bag he had picked up from Honeydukes earlier that day inside his jacket and tossed it to the girl. "The Sugar Quills are a personal favourite."

She peeked inside and her eyes widened in delight. At Marigold's loud noise of dismay, Daisy tried to hide her excitement but failed quite spectacularly.

Rosemary did not seem to care at all about her older sister's displeasure. "Leave some for me!" she chirped as the kettle began whistling loudly. She was humming a cheery little tune under her breath, as though she hadn't a care in the world, and carried a tea set over to the table, gesturing at one of the chairs with a smile. Dumbledore noticed only now that her stockings were mismatched, one brown and the other black. Her blouse was sticking out in several places where she'd tucked it into her skirt and she seemed to have no intention of fixing her appearance.

Dumbledore sat down, as did the two older Winslows, Marigold glowering with an intensity that actually intimidated him, a feat no one had accomplished in a long time. He cleared his throat and looked towards Rosemary instead. He found that her carefree, absentminded smile was no less troubling.

"Well," Marigold bit out as her sister poured the tea, "get it over with. It's late, I'm tired. Ask my sister what you need to know and then leave us alone."

"Don't be rude," Rosemary said, but there was no sharpness to it. Instead she sounded like she found her sister's manners rather amusing. She handed Dumbledore a tea cup, an obvious relict from the family's glory days. The Winslow's coat of arms was painted onto the porcelain, a magnificent winged serpent taking flight with a bouquet of flowers clamped between its jaws. Beneath that, the family motto spelt out: _Gloria, super omne_. Dumbledore averted his eyes.

"Miss Winslow..."he broke off, staring into his tea that had a strange yellow-ish colour. "May I call you Rosemary?"

She grimaced. "Please, no. Call me Rosie."

"Rosie," he repeated, nodding. "Rosie it is. Well, you must be wondering why I came here today."

"Wondering," Marigold repeated, her tone mocking. From her position on the bed, Daisy giggled.

Dumbledore ignored them, focusing only on the girl in front of him. "Rosie, you're a Seer-"

"We already know that," Marigold piped up, aggressively. "Also, that wasn't a question."

He paused, then nodded. "Yes, you are right, I am an intruder here. I apologize, Miss Winslow, I'll try to be quick about it." Dumbledore folded his hands in his lap and leant back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, clearer than it had been before, "In the past week, there have been a number of... incidents at the Ministry. Several high-ranking members of the Wizengamot vanishing without a trace, no word to their families or friends. Yesterday, Perseus Scrimgeour, one of those that went missing, was found in his office. Murdered. In his pocket, the authorities found this."

He drew his wand from his pocket, ignoring the way Marigold stiffened. Gently, he tapped the tip of his wand against the milk jug and a burst of red light broke free, enveloping the object in a brilliant explosion. Dumbledore was not teaching Transfiguration without reason but he smiled indulgently when he heard Daisy gasp from somewhere to his left. The light faded and instead of the milk jug, a small silver coin had taken its place on the table.

It had been pure coincidence that Dumbledore had been the one to find Scrimgeour, a dear friend he had only meant to visit briefly. After he had given the alarm and Aurors had streamed into the cramped office, he had been granted only a single glance at the coin, but it had been enough for the sight to burn itself deep into his mind. A black dragon, its wings bound with heavy shackles, breathing a wave of dark fire. The other side was completely blank.

As the girls examined the coin, Rosemary extending a hand to run a single finger around its edge carefully, her face full of wonder, Dumbledore took a sip of his tea – and immediately came to regret it. The taste in his mouth reminded him of things he'd rather forget. Belatedly, he noticed that Marigold had turned her cup over, refusing any tea, and vowed never again to try anything that had been prepared by Rosemary Winslow.

"What's this symbol?" Marigold asked and Dumbledore suppressed a smile. It was endearing to see her curiosity after she had been so eager to appear dismissive and disinterested moments before. It reminded him of his classroom.

"I do not know," he answered candidly, "I have never seen it before in my life. But there are certain beliefs that are spreading, taking root in our community, and it seems they have reached even those at the very heart of it. It is no coincidence that the vanished wizards and witches are all known to be strong advocates of the Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Certain people think that instead of hiding, our kind should take control over the Muggles, take back this world for our own." Dumbledore fell silent for a moment. "Many believe the time has come to show the Muggles their rightful place, one far beneath witches and wizards."

"Grindelwald," Marigold said, her face expressionless. Her hands, however, were shaking.

Dumbledore nodded. "I cannot say for sure that he has any connection to these crimes, but it is my personal conviction that where trouble goes, Grindelwald is not far."

Marigold did not look convinced. "Be that as it may, if you're looking to have my sister tell you how to bring Gellert Grindelwald down, I'm afraid you've wasted your time. Her premonitions don't come on demand and I doubt she could manage what the entire Ministry has so far failed at. No offense, Rosie."

"I don't think Professor Dumbledore is looking for a new prophecy, Mary," Rosie spoke up suddenly. Something about her seemed to have changed profoundly in the few moments that Dumbledore had taken his eyes off her. The almost endearing owlishness that was so characteristic of her had made room for a darker kind of detachment from reality, a vacant look on her pretty face that was as disconcerting as the fact that she seemed to know exactly why he was here. "I think Professor Dumbledore wants to know about a prophecy I have already made. Isn't that right, Sir?"

He swallowed. "When we first met," he said softly and leaned forward, bracing his hands on the tabletop, "you were only a girl. But you told me something, something I have not been able to shake since, you said..." Dumbledore paused, realizing with a sudden start his own eagerness, his hunger for knowledge. He cleared his throat and forced himself to relax, just a little. He should not be giving this much away, not when every look from Marigold Winslow made it feel like she were seeing deep into even the darkest corners of his mind."You told me that there would be a time of darkness. When brothers turned against each other and even the sky would burst into flames. That time, that darkness... it is coming now, isn't it?"

A beat of unbearable silence passed in which he felt as though the very world was holding its breath in anticipation.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Professor Dumbledore..." The girl's voice was faint and her eyes were focused on the air above his shoulder, as her fingers, frantically, began twisting the coin over and over in her hands. "It's already here."

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 **Author's Note:** Well, I'm... not quite sure what this is? I've been working on it for some time and have the first two chapters written already, so hopefully they'll be coming your way in a little while.  
I'm actually extremely nervous, seeing as this is the first time I've ever shared any of my work, but I really hope you enjoy it and would like to read more! I'm always open for questions, just send them along to my tumblr ( .com)!


	2. Chapter One - The Auror

**Author's Note:** I am actually incapable of writing short chapters.

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 **CHAPTER ONE**

 **The Auror**

Byron Trelawney was tired.

He had been trailing after the girl all day, since the very moment she had left her flat in the seediest part of London he had ever been to. Frankly, if Byron never set foot into Fulham again, it would be too soon. His legs were aching from standing all day and his stomach had growled several times within the past five minutes. Sometimes, he really did think about joining the Union of Ministry employees, if only to get more breaks on shifts like this. A man had to eat and it didn't help that Byron's partner had sent an owl announcing that he would have to stay at home due to some mishap with a spell. Knowing Bilius Weasley, he had most likely been trying to take apart some Muggle invention and had ended up nearly blowing his ears off.

How that man had ever become an Auror, Byron wasn't entirely sure. Well, actually, that was a lie, as he knew that if Bilius ever stopped his foolish endeavours to understand Muggles, he was one of the most talented wizards of his generation. Sadly, this was not a regular occurrence.

Rosemary Winslow might have been the most boring person he had ever tailed in the six years he'd been with the Auror Office. Nobody thought it necessary to tell him, a nobody from a prestigious family that had yet to make a name for himself, why she needed to be watched so closely and he couldn't seem to come up with a reason himself, no matter how he racked his brain. One would think that when the Head of the Auror Office specifically asked his subordinates to have someone shadowing a person at all times, they would turn out to be extraordinary in some way. Perhaps they terrorized unsuspecting Muggles with jinxed objects or they dealt in illegal magical beasts in back alleys.

But so far, the only remarkable thing Winslow had done was drop all four tea cups she had been meant to bring the owner of the small solicitor's office where she worked as a typist. And this, as far as Byron could tell, seemed to be only a testament of just how unsuited she was to the job and not of her meddling in any criminal activities. In any case, Rosemary Winslow did not look anything but ordinary either, if one took out of account the Muggle dress she wore, gone out of fashion several years ago. She was a petite girl, three or four years Byron's junior, conventionally attractive if not a bit too bony, with fair hair and a birthmark on her neck, peeking just out of her coat's collar. Byron thought he knew the sight of her neck by heart, if only because he had been staring at it for three days now as he tried not to lose track of her movements in the crowds of London. He took care always to retain a safety distance between the two of them, so much so that he hadn't yet gotten a good look at her face, only hurried glances through the glass front of the solicitor's office before he again disappeared behind his paper.

It seemed absurd to him, that he knew exactly how many steps it took from her flat to her workplace, which tree she preferred in Hyde Park and how many spoons of sugar she liked in her tea, but not really what she looked like upfront or the way her voice sounded.

Then again, he wasn't very interested either. Byron was just mourning the fact that Duncan Moody, who had completed the Auror training at the same time as him, had been sent with senior Aurors to examine a lead of Grindelwald's they'd picked up in France. Meanwhile Byron was stuck here, keeping tabs on a girl who had been staring at a hatter's display window for fifteen minutes.

It was all rather humiliating and he dearly hoped that Grandmother would not sent him another owl, asking about his success at work. It was at times tiring to be the grandson of a celebrated Seer, especially as Cassandra Trelawney was not of a very forgiving nature. She had a very clear vision of her grandson's future – though not an actual vision, but rather an idea of where she would like him to be someday – and it included him as Head of the Auror department.

Actually, that was not entirely true.

Cassandra Trelawney had always wished for Byron to share her gift of the Sight. But he, analytical and level-headed like his father, never quite managed to make any sense of crystal balls and tea dregs. Unfortunately, such things seemed to often skip three generations.

Winslow suddenly seemed to have done enough hat-gazing and made down the street with a light skip to her step. She always seemed to walk like that, more an excitable child than a responsible woman and it was only one of the many things Byron detested about her.

He hurried after her shrinking figure, weaving through the thick crowds of people on their way home from work, a little feeble because Winslow had a bigger lead on him than he was comfortable with. And she was fast too, faster than she'd ever been before, almost like she had suddenly remembered something and was now trying to make up on lost time. She hurried down King's Road with unusual determination that made it hard for Byron to keep up. As he made haste, always trying to keep an eye on the dark blue fabric of her coat, he knocked against shoulders and elbows, loud protests following him in his wake. He pushed a man about to mount a bicycle out of the way, foregoing an apology altogether. If he lost sight of Winslow, he'd be out of a job and the knowledge had him quicken his pace, breaking into a jog. Finally, just as she rounded a corner, Byron was close enough to the girl to slow down a little, his lungs already aching. The only sport he had ever been interested in was Quidditch and since that mostly involved sitting on a rather uncomfortable broom, his physique was painfully lacking.

Winslow turned right onto a smaller branching road that led towards the river. It was less crowded here then King's Road had been and though that made it easier to keep track of the girl, it was also harder to remain unnoticed. He doubled their distance and slowed his pace into a leisured stroll, shoving his hands into his pockets. He watched as Winslow crossed the street, nearly getting run over by an automobile for no other apparent reason than because she had not seen it. This made Byron think that he might not have to worry quite as much about her spotting him as he had before. She bought a Muggle paper at a stand, but did not pause to read it, clamping it underneath her elbow and turning right. As Byron followed her, he could hear that she was singing a nursery rhyme, very softly and terribly out of tune.

 _Baa, baa, niffler, have you any gold? Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, three bags full._

His mother had sung the same song to him when he was small and scared after a nightmare, he remembered distantly. Hearing it in the middle of a Muggle street, coming from this peculiar girl, was a confusing experience and Byron shook his head, ridding himself of the memories it brought. It was essential that he stayed focused, especially because he was already exhausted from his sprint.

After his erratic breathing had calmed down a little, Byron finally got a good look at the street onto which Winslow had turned. If it even deserved that name. It was more of an alley, so narrow that two men would not be able to walk side by side. The smell of garbage was so overwhelming it made Byron's eyes water as he passed an assortment of trash cans. Two dogs were scrabbling over a bone and the girl stopped for a moment, observing them with an air of awe about her that seemed entirely unnecessary for the situation.

As Byron hung back by the entry of the alley, out of sight, the loud noise of someone apparating, amplified tenfold as it bounced off the slick walls, took him so entirely by surprise he jumped at least two foot into the air. As he fumbled for his wand where he'd hidden it in the inside pocket of his coat, he stepped out of the bleak November sunlight and into the dimness of the alley.

Immediately, his eyes found Winslow, who had turned away from the dogs and was now facing the man that had, seemingly, popped out of thin air. With his back turned to Byron, he could only tell that the newcomer was very tall and very broad, blocking his view of Winslow, dwarfed by the man, entirely. Therefore, a moment passed in which Byron, who could not see the girls' face, wasn't sure whether this was where she actually got an illicit beast out from beneath her coat or if she was just as shocked by this turn of events as he himself was.

It was due to this that Byron didn't react fast enough. The man produced the most crude-looking wand Byron had ever seen from somewhere, pointed it at the girl in a surprisingly elegant movement for such a huge man and said, "Confringo."

For a split second, Byron saw his future flash before his eyes – or at least the miserable remainder of it. Being discharged from the Aurors office dishonourably, his grandmother disinheriting him, and then, at the age of twenty eight, dying alone and miserably from some Muggle illness. Most likely tuberculosis. He was already in enough trouble as it was.

But the second passed and Winslow already had her wand drawn, deflecting the spell with a lazy wave of her hand and a soft mutter of protego. The movement was so smooth that it seemed almost like she had been expecting the attack and was not caught off guard at all. Byron didn't think he would have been able to block that curse and he was a trained Auror.

The man wasted no time and attacked again, sending a red flash into the alley, and finally Byron jumped into action. He pushed aside the jumbled mess of his thoughts and concentrated on nothing but his target. It was an almost cleansing feeling as the weight of his worries seemed to slide off his shoulders. A good duel, Byron had learned, was like therapy.

Winslow avoided the spell directed at her narrowly, leaping to the side and tumbling ungracefully against the wall to her left. Byron took note of this with relief at first but just as he fired an impeccably aimed disarming charm at the stranger, the man took a step to the side to be face to face with Winslow again. The scarlet beam of Byron's spell whooshed past the man's shaved head, missing its target by a foot and crashing into the open shutter of one of the houses.

He was torn between disappointment and frustration for a moment, right before the man turned to him and hissed. Byron had no troubles placing his face; it had stared back at him from posters plastered all over the Ministry and covering the walls of Diagon Alley for months. Sunken cheeks, dark eyes, a prominent jaw – each of the man's features was harsh like a cliff that had been weathered by the sea for centuries. Byron knew, even then, that he would remember Ronan's face until the day he died.

Just for a moment, Byron could feel as his heart stopped, heard the whisper of waves in his ears, felt wind tracing his cheeks with icy fingers and tasted salt on his lips. It was almost like being there, in that moment he relived again and again, like a gramophone desperately trying to play a scratched record.

Then it was over and Byron was throwing spells at Ronan, too fast for any of them to strike. Really, if he were to look back at the situation later, he would realise that he was putting Winslow in more danger of being hit by one of his wayward attacks than he was protecting her, as should be his main goal. But all his previous intentions and ambitions had shrunken to mere footnotes in the face of Ronan.

By now Winslow had regained her balance and her voice echoed through the alley as she aimed to disarm her attacker. Together, Byron and the girl forced Ronan towards the wall. They were advancing on him, their spells coming at off intervals, like an orchestra that could not find its rhythm and Ronan blocked them all. Two against one, they should have been more than able to bring the man down. Yet they couldn't even get the upper hand, not in any noticeably way. Ronan deflected all of their spells without great difficulty, his face void of any emotion, a blank slate.

Byron had never been good at working with a partner, he preferred to be alone as he had always felt he was on his strongest when no one else could interfere. The only person he would willingly join forces with was Bilius and he had grown accustomed to the tranquillity of him, the deep-rooted calm that never made way, no matter how dire the situation. Winslow was different – it was obvious that she had not received any kind of training in duelling past what they taught at Hogwarts and her skills were rather limited, the movements stunted and hesitant as if she hadn't used her magic at all in a considerable amount of time.

And Byron himself – though he would never admit it – was sloppy. Emotions had muddled his senses and the movements of his wand lacked their razor-sharp edge, his incantations sounded like the stumbling pronunciation of a child. The moment he had let his heart take control over his head, it seemed he'd entered an endless field of ice and now everywhere he stepped, his feet were slipping and skidding with no way to make it back to safe ground.

Ronan stood with his back pressed against one of the walls, the stone still slick with yesterdays' rain and a sheen of permanent perspiration. A flick of his wrist and he had thrown upwards an invisible shield, not even uttering a word and one of Winslow's spells ricocheted off it, the red jet of light hitting her square in the face and knocking her off her feet. She sailed in a high arch through the air, slammed against the wall and landed on the floor with a loud thud. Byron could hear her moan and winced in sympathy.

He stood facing Ronan on his own now, and in a way this more like the lengthy scenarios of revenge he'd imagined when he lay awake at night, haunted by ghosts and things much worse. In those dreams, he usually had something witty to say, something profound that almost made up for everything else.

But now his head was empty, swept clean of words or any sort of coherent thought.

His hands – relentlessly firing spells at Ronan – reacted solely on muscle memory, movements that had been branded into his mind in countless hours of excessive training. At this point, he wasn't even sure whether he meant to kill the man or take him into custody. Maybe he just wanted him to sprout a second head, a particularly ugly one with some kind of hideous skin condition.

In the end, it didn't matter at all what Byron wanted.

Ronan sighed once, like all along they had been playing a game and finally he'd gotten tired of it. Flicking away one of Byron's spells he pointed his wand at him and uttered, his voice echoing through the alley, "Crucio."

Byron doubled over, his knees slamming against the cobblestones, as his world exploded into a burst of white-hot pain. It felt a little like his brain had burst into flame spontaneously, like all his cells were disintegrating and he couldn't do anything but scream. There was nothing left inside of him but that terrible, horrible, all-consuming pain that was as wide and as endless as the sky above them.

And then it stopped.

He gasped for breath, like a man drowning, and struggled to make sense of the situation, to compartmentalise and to seize control again, the way a good Auror did in any fight. Winslow had gotten back on her feet, looking a little worse for wear with the cut on her head gushing blood all over her face, and was pointing her wand at Ronan, her legs spread in a fighting stance. It was obvious that she'd tried to disarm him, and though she had failed in that endeavour, she'd at least succeeded in disrupting the Cruciatus Curse.

Ronan seemed a little surprised, a truly rare occurrence, and Byron knew that now was the time to strike. But when he prepared himself for another attack, he found that in his mindless state of pain, he seemed to have let go of his wand. He saw it lying just a few feet away, an unassuming piece of wood, leaving him not only defenceless but also, once again, unable to act as Ronan fled.

"Well," the man said, casting a look of disdain at Byron, "It was a pleasure. As always."

Then he turned on the spot and – with a loud noise – disapparated.

Byron's first instinct was to scream. There was so much anger inside of him – a furious fire that burned and burned, the flames licking at his feet until every part of him was burning – that he didn't know how to hold it in. That he had been defeated again, like a little boy, that he had nearly compromised his mission by acting on some pathetic crusade, and, worst of all, the look Ronan had given him before disappearing. It was not the look one gave an opponent, an enemy, an equal; it was the way one looked at an irritating fly buzzing around one's head. Fifteen years since their last meeting and he still hadn't earned even a bit of respect.

His second instinct was to cry. For all the things he'd lost and for what had nearly happened in this dingy alleyway with no one there to witness but a girl who sang nursery rhymes in the open street. That might have been a rather less heroic way to go than he had always dreamed for himself.

The third instinct that overcame him – and this was the one he finally acted upon – was to get up and act like a professional.

Winslow leaned against the wall a few foot from him, her face still bloody, hands linked behind her back and a sort of quizzical look on her face that was a lot calmer than the previous dilemma warranted. She blinked at him with large eyes that reminded him of some animal, only just awakened from hibernation. It was almost as unsettling as wanted criminal Edward Ronan unceremoniously showing up ten minutes ago.

Byron cleared his throat as he bent to pick up his wand. He checked at the alleys' entranceways, relief flooding him when he was sure that no Muggle had noticed their rather public fight. They'd been lucky. Quickly muttering an incantation, he straightened his tie and removed the dirt from the knees of his slacks. He really liked those trousers and he'd paid good money for them.

Only when he was satisfied that he looked more put-together than he felt did he turn back to Winslow. She was still staring at him and apparently hadn't moved an inch.

"Well..." He called his grandmother's endless lessons in politeness to mind and offered her his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss."

Slowly, she took his hand and he tried not to flinch. Her skin was very cold.

"Hello," she said and her voice sounded like it might be carried away by the wind. Up close, Byron saw that her cheeks and nose were covered in freckles and she was so skinny that he could have probably counted her ribs through her dress if she hadn't worn a coat. She might have been beautiful, if this were one of those Muggle poems, but in the real world she only looked very unhealthy and like she desperately needed a good night of sleep. "You're Byron. Byron Trelawney."

He faltered at that. Of course, Byron knew Winslow's name himself, but there was a plausible explanation for that. He couldn't, however, remember having ever been introduced to her before. He pondered, "How do you know my name?"

Winslow took a step away from the wall, her elbow grazing against his as she walked further into the alley. The scent of her perfume drifted past him, something light and flowery that was distinctly different from the fragrance most witches wore these days. The heady Enchanted No 5 was all the rage with the gals, as one of the employees at Witches' Needs on Diagon Alley had assured him. He'd bought a bottle for Zelda just last Thursday.

"You went to Hogwarts," she mumbled, her thoughts obviously on something else entirely. As if that answer explained anything.

"Lots a people go to Hogwarts."

"Oh, yes, but I remember you. You were a Slytherin."

Frankly, Byron found it rather unsettling that this girl remembered him when he had absolutely no idea who she was. She must have attended the school a few years after him. "I'm sorry," he apologized, more out of obligation than because he actually felt any kind of embarrassment. He could hardly remember every single Hogwarts' student. "I don't think I remember you."

"That's alright." She turned to face him and smiled. Byron tried to hide his bafflement. "My name's Rosie."

Right.

He tried desperately to recall Auror protocol. "I'm afraid I have to take you in."

Byron had expected protest, some kind of struggle. He had not expected her to shrug and nod. "Alright," she said casually. "Where are we going?"

"I... Ministry." He eyed her warily. "You're not in shock, are you?"

It was her turn to look confused. "I don't think so. Should I be?"

"Somebody just tried to blow you up in an alleyway. If you don't go into shock now, when will you ever?"

Winslow started giggling as if she were laughing at the punchline of some joke that Byron hadn't understood. "Oh, because of that!" Her hair, worn longer than was the fashion, slapped against her cheeks as she shook her head in laughter. "But I knew that was going to happen."

Byron tried to decrypt that sentence for a second and then decided that perhaps it was better not to think about it too hard. It seemed to him that most things this girl said didn't make much sense when it came down to it.

She took the arm he offered, smiling blissfully. Another thing Byron ignored strategically. This girl was unnerving and he was in no position to deal with it at the moment. He was an inch from a full-blown breakdown and he'd prefer to go over the edge back at his own lodgings.

He turned on the spot and for a few seconds the familiar feeling of the world pressing in on him from all sides made it impossible to breathe. Just when he thought he might choke, the pressure ceased and they were standing in the Ministry's large atrium, just beside the Fountain of Magical Brethren.

"I missed apparating," Winslow said, sounding wistful as she brushed some water from her eyebrow. It was dripping on her from one of the house elf's ears. She did not look like she minded or was even aware of it. "I always liked it."

Why anybody in their right mind would like the sensation of apparition was absolutely beyond Byron. But when he took another look at Winslow's faraway eyes and the cookie crumbs on her scarf, he deduced that she most likely wasn't in her right mind.

Nonetheless, he tugged the girl out of the water's reach and brushed the few droplets away with the sleeve of his coat. He had been raised a gentleman, after all.

"I'll bring you to the Aurors' Office now, Miss Winslow."

"You can call me Rosie," she offered, not at all interested in his plan and instead looking around the atrium in awe. "I've never been to the Ministry before."

Byron cleared his throat to get her attention. "Did you hear me? I'll take you to my superior at the Aurors' Office."

"You're an Auror?" Winslow's eyes lit up in interest. "I used to want to be an Auror! But then I couldn't-"

"Miss Winslow," Byron interrupted, barely bothering with concealing his annoyance, "I don't have all day."

As the wonder disappeared from her face instantaneously, something in Byron roared at him to take it back and give her the time to tell her story. He wrestled it down.

But instead of appearing offended or slighted, Winslow only studied him inquisitively. "That wasn't very polite," she told him and reminded him in that moment so much of his grandmother that he could feel blood rushing into his cheeks.

Chided like a little boy caught with his hand in the Sugar Mice jar, Byron struggled to regain his composure. He gestured at the cut in her forehead that was dribbling blood down the side of her face. Her collar was already stained a dark red and her hair was matted to the skin. "I could fix that for you, if you'd like."

"Fix?" Her hand wandered to the wound and she flinched in pain when her fingers connected with it. An awed expression on her face, she gazed at the blood on her fingertips. "Oh. I forgot about that."

Byron was beginning to wonder whether her encounter with the brick wall might have left her with a serious concussion.

"That would be very nice of you," Winslow said and turned her face so he could examine the wound. The movement made her sway dangerously on her feet.

His hand moved to her waist on reflex, steadying her as he traced the tip of his wand over the gash carefully, muttering an incantation under his breath. It amazed him sometimes that even after living with it all his life, magic never quite lost any of its miracle. He watched, breath bated and heart skipping, as the satin smooth skin spread over the wound, as his wand left healing in its wake. It seemed impossible to him that he could do such things.

When the bleeding had stopped and the wound was sealed, Byron made haste to step away from her, stowing his wand in his coat pocket once more. "Stay close," he warned her in a low voice, fingers closing around her elbow so she might not wander off. "We don't need you getting lost. The Ministry's rather large."

She followed wordlessly, her face turned upwards to examine the high walls as well as the ceiling. There was a constant expression of awe written on her face. Byron imagined it might have been endearing on anyone else, but now he just avoided looking at her. They passed the news stand, the house elf sitting behind it springing to life and eagerly offering them Daily Prophet editions.

"Here, Sir," the elf called in a squeaky voice, wobbling after them on his short legs, "Four Ministry Men Dead, Grindelwald on the loose! Read all about it, Sir, only one Knut, Sir, read all about it!"

"No thank you," Byron declined. It was the same every day with the elves that worked the stand and he was beginning to harbour a secret dream in which he set fire to the papers. Not that he would ever do that but maybe then he'd finally get to cross the atrium in relative peace. "I already bought one this morning, Skippy. Sorry."

He steered toward the lifts, his eyes focused on nothing but the gold of the cages, ignoring the distracting sounds of wings flapping as messenger owls flew above their heads like passing clouds. Byron preferred not to think of how much time he had already wasted with removing the animals' droppings from his suits and coats. Someone ought to come up with a more efficient and less... dirty way to correspond with colleagues.

His palm was still pressed to the small of her back as they entered the lift and the fabric felt so scratchy against his skin that he wondered how she stood to wear it. There was another elf at the back of the lift, this one dressed in a red bellboy's uniform complete with gold buttons and a hat, ready to work the levers.

"Auror Office," Byron demanded, his tone clipped, and nodded curtly at the lift's only other occupant, a stout man with an impressive beard that was wearing a hat the colour of venom and clutching a wicker basket. When Byron took note of the rattling of the basket, the lid lifting just the barest inch upwards from time to time, he made sure to keep away as far as possible.

As the lift came to its usual rattling life, jerking back and up, Byron had the presence of mind to grab Winslow who began tottering in her heels, taken by surprise. "Oh," she breathed and then laughed. "This is fun."

Byron had heard the elevators called several things, but fun had not been among them.

Their altercation with Ronan had delayed them considerably and the Ministry was near deserted, most of the employees having already returned to their homes and the dinner awaiting them there. Byron, who hadn't eaten anything since a hastily gobbled scone this morning, tried to keep his jealously at bay, as well as the growling of his stomach.

The elevator came to a jerking halt that had even him grasping for his balance as an airy voice announced, "Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Straightening his jacket, Byron gestured for Winslow to get off first and she followed his instruction, thanking the elf who was already preparing to pull the lever once more. Byron was too caught up in pushing the girl out of the way before the golden grating slid closed once more to give even as much as a nod. Annoyed and tired, he prayed that this day would be over soon and immediately made to round the corner, reaching the set of heavy oak doors that divided the other departments from the one he worked in.

"Uhm, Mr. Trelawney?" The girl pushed a bit closer to him as they entered the office, her large eyes blinking at the wanted posters and wooden desks. "What are we doing here?"

Byron decided not to point out that he'd explained this to her previously and said simply, "My boss'll want to see you."

"Why?"

Byron paused for a moment. "That's classified."

Winslow pressed closer to him, her fingers grasping his coat sleeve, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her presence just behind his shoulder. "But if it concerns me, shouldn't I be allowed to know?"

"I..." The worst part was that he agreed. "That's not my decision to make, Miss Winslow."

He crossed the office too fast, the girl struggling to match his longer strides. There were still a few lingering Aurors, typing away at reports or brooding over maps and newspapers. The air smelled of bitter coffee and day-old pastries. Somewhere, a gramophone was playing American Jazz, the squelching sound of saxophones and trumpets strangely soothing. Quiet never seemed to settle on the Auror Office completely, and in truth, this was one of the reasons why Byron loved it as he did. There was a certain kind of comfort to be found in the lazy buzzing of a two a.m. passed cramped in a too-small office cubicle as someone else, somewhere in that large room, dictated a mission report to his quill. There was a certain kind of comfort to be found in a routine of business that never ceased.

Byron passed his own assigned desk, just a few feet from the unremarkable door they'd been approaching, and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Bill?!"

The man, leaning over his own desk and apparently trying to take hold of a chocolate frog that was leaping its way off the table top, shot upwards, nearly knocking over several empty glass bottles. The bottles had once been filled with that sticky sweet Muggle lemonade, Coca Cola. Byron shot them a venomous glance before focusing his attention on his partner once more.

"I thought you were sick," he stated and let his eyes slide over the man once, from his nearly bald head over the stomach bulging past the waistband of his ill-fitting trousers and down to his shoes, stained a darker shade of brown with mud. "You don't look sick."

Bilius Weasley was a horrible liar and Byron suspected this was due to the man's complete inability for anything but kindness. He went a remarkable shade of scarlet and straightened his back, dusting a few biscuit crumbs from his waistcoat while remaining unawares of the ones tangled in the ginger hairs of his moustache. His thick accent seemed even more indiscernible than usually. "Ah, Byron, my boy! Yes, good, you're here, I was expecting you almost two hours ago."

"We were delayed," Byron answered evasively, keenly conscious of Bilius' reluctance to answer the question. "Why are you here, Bilius?"

His blush turned, impossibly, an even darker shade. "Yes, well... that. Horribly embarrassing stuff, laddie... Quite does me head in how I managed it. But I was working on one of them thingies I told you about, right? Those radios the Muggles have now? Well, anyways, I'm working on it, all normal, soon as you know it, the thing explodes, just about goes up in flames. So I go to put it out, 'course I do, and then I notice that I'm missing three of me toes so I..."

"Missing three of your toes?" Byron sounded as horrified as he felt and couldn't keep himself from glancing at his partner's feet.

"Yeah, three a 'em," Bilius went on, "Spent the whole day at St. Mungo's, you know how they say be careful with the toes and feet. Don't like it too much when you put them joints back on yourself." He paused, his eyes turning over Byron's shoulders and then his face seemed to light up. "Wodger! Who's this pretty Missy, then?"

Winslow giggled, a girlish sound that seemed oddly mundane when considering her usual outlandish behaviour. "My name's Rosie," she introduced herself, smiling very brightly and sounding very cheerful. Byron was beginning to think she might be the sort of person to start doing cart wheels at a funeral. No sense of what was appropriate and what wasn't.

Bilius shook her hand enthusiastically, smiling at her like he hadn't a care in the world. "Bilius Weasley, pleasure to meet you, Miss." He turned to look at Byron, raising one bushy eyebrow and grinning, the expression wicked and good-natured in equal measures. "Where'd you find her?"

Byron crossed his arms in front of his chest. "This is Rosemary Winslow, Bill. I think you've heard of her before."

His face fell, recognition flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Winslow from his periphery, his joy dampened and dissipated within a moment. "Oh," he said, slowly, "well. Yes. Winslow. I see."

Winslow herself seemed hardly interested in the sudden shift of the mood, focussing her attention instead on a newspaper clipping of the first case Bilius and Byron had solved together. They'd tracked a beast dealer ring down, busting their headquarters within a week and locating several boxes filled to the brim with Chinese Fire Snails in an abandoned warehouse by Brighton. Nasty things, those Chinese Fire Snails. It had been a big triumph and it had secured Byron his position, but that was the only time one of his accomplishments had ever warranted his name to be printed in a Prophet article. Almost four years ago, now.

"I have to report to Deepwater," Byron informed his partner, jerking his head in the direction of their superior's office. "We had a... run-in with someone."

Bilius frowned, his previous discomfort at Winslow's presence turning into the sort of professional concern that kept him an Auror. "With who?"

There was no plausible explanation for why Byron didn't tell him. He simply couldn't, not when he knew that he'd have to tell his boss again in a few minutes. Thinking the name alone filled him with a fury that burned bright and fed fast, gnawing at the edges of his mind until all coherent thought burned to ashes in its heat. "No one important," he lied. "Nothing you need to worry about."

To his credit, Bilius did not look convinced. "That why you brought her?" he inquired, his voice bearing just the slightest hint of accusation. "Because I'm rather sure that you're compromising the mission entirely."

Byron's voice was a snarl as he shot, "At least I was there. You're just a useless old man blowing his own toes off with Muggle nonsense."

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth but he came to loathe himself when he saw Bilius' face, the dullness of his eyes, the movement of his throat as he swallowed heavily. Why did he always do this? Why was his temper such a quick and cruel thing?

"Indeed," Bilius mumbled, nodding tiredly, "you're right. At least you're doing your job. Maybe you should take the girl and report to the boss now. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

There was an apology on the tip of his tongue, but Byron nearly choked on the words, clearing his throat in a desperate attempt to get rid of their bitter taste. "Yes, of course." He turned to Winslow who was observing the scene before her with a detached interest that fuelled the fire inside of Byron again. "Come on, then."

He was about to grab her arm once more, but the girl moved forward of her own accord, hands clasped behind her back and again with that skipping to her step that made her look like a toddler. "It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Weasley," she told Bill, smiling gently, and then, once they'd walked just a few paces, she turned her eyes to Byron and said, "That was horrible of you. You're not a very nice person."

Byron blinked. "That's a lie! You can't just come and..." He broke off, grimacing. "Why am I explaining myself to you? I don't owe you any explanation!"

"I didn't ask for an explanation," Winslow pointed out, looking ahead stubbornly, "You decided to provide it yourself. Because you feel guilty and because you know I'm right."

He found himself unable to argue with that. Instead, he lifted his knuckles and rapped them against the door a few times, just beneath the silver letters spelling _TITUS DEEPWATER_ and beneath that, much smaller, _Head of Auror Office_.

A few beats passed and then the door swung open, granting them entrance. Deepwater's office had always intimidated Byron, if only for its sheer onslaught of chaos. The room was considerably small but stuffed to the very ceiling with paraphernalia. Books lined the shelves, old and heavy, wood groaning under the weight, a model of the planets dangled above their heads, portraits moved incessantly on the walls and side tables were loaded with delicate silver instruments meant for things Byron knew nothing about.

Titus Deepwater sat behind his desk, legs crossed, and was watching them intently over the rim of his glasses. Byron shuddered and had to stifle his sudden urge to turn on his heel, go home and crawl into bed. He straightened his shoulders. No way around it.

"Byron," he greeted, his voice betraying no emotion. "I thought we'd agreed to stay undercover."

"Yes, we..." Byron realized belatedly that he was still standing on the threshold, Winslow awkwardly trailing a foot or so in front of him and holding onto the doorframe with white knuckles. Hastily, he stumbled into the office and pulled the door shut behind him. The lock clicked with a sense of finality. "There was an incident."

Deepwater rose from his chair. He wasn't a tall man - in truth, Byron with his lean and towering frame had at least a good half foot on his superior - but he carried himself with an air of dignity that spoke volumes of his capability and coerced from those around him the sort of respect his skills deserved. A cowering, fearful sort of respect as Titus Deepwater was not a man to trifle with. The sharp cut of his black suit and the startling contrast to his white shirt emphasized the angles of his face, the slanted eyes and the thick eyebrows. This here was a man Byron did not want to displease.

"An incident?" Deepwater's gaze traced over him slowly and Byron prayed the ground would open and swallow him whole. "What incident?"

"Miss Winslow," Byron began, then quickly cleared his throat to get rid of the emasculating squeak his voice had suddenly taken on. "Miss Winslow was attacked. By Edward Ronan."

Even Deepwater seemed startled by that, an unusual feat. "Edward Ronan?" he repeated, "What in the name of Merlin could Edward Ronan want with Miss Winslow?"

Both men turned to look at the girl, still leaning half against the wall, wide-eyed and slack-mouthed. She looked, Byron thought, like a cornered animal.

"I don't know." Winslow shrugged, a helpless gesture that almost woke his pity. "I just saw that he'd show up this morning, and then I nearly forgot about it, but I made it to the alley in time and..."

Byron remembered suddenly the moment the girl had begun hurrying when before she'd been delaying, the way she'd deflected a spell that would have felled wizards far above her talents. Realization dawned. "You knew?" He couldn't stop the words from coming and he couldn't keep the anger from his voice. "You knew that Ronan would attack you and you came anyway?"

Winslow shrugged, again, and she looked even smaller than she was. "There rarely comes any good from me trying to dodge what I saw. Besides, I knew I'd be fine. You were there."

Byron stared at her, lost for words until his boss cleared his throat.

"Miss Winslow," he addressed her, gesturing at a chair. "Please. Have a seat."

The girl hesitated, glancing at the offered chair as though it might turn into a snake at any moment and bite her. But then she pushed off the wall, haltingly, and breezed past Byron, her coat sleeve brushing against his knuckles. She sank down, folding her legs underneath the chair and gnawing on her lower lip mercilessly.

Deepwater gave him a look that made his intention for Byron to leave painfully obvious, but he paid it no mind and instead stood next to Winslow's seat. Maybe there was no reason for it, but he felt responsible for the girl, somehow. He'd stay.

Deepwater's eyebrow had risen so far that it was almost touching his hairline, but he didn't argue. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and resting the tips of his fingers against each other so they created a small tent. When Byron glanced at Winslow from the corner of his eye, he saw her watching Deepwater, blinking lazily in a way that betrayed fatigue and exhaustion.

"Are you from China?" she asked after a moment and Byron felt compelled to hide his face behind his hands at her entire lack of tact.

But Deepwater only smiled, mildly amused. "No," he said. "My parents came here from Japan. They were Quidditch players."

"Hmm." Winslow seemed to consider this. "Were they any good?"

Deepwater laughed and Byron felt as if he'd entered some kind of parallel universe. "My father was horrible. But my mother was, as I hear you young folks say now, the goblin's knees?"

Winslow smiled, crossed her legs and asked, "Did you have someone tail me because Professor Dumbledore visited me?"

The sudden shift in the tone of the conversation left Byron scrambling to keep up. It was hard to grasp for him just how much Winslow understood of the happenings around her when she seemed to be completely out of it most of the time.

"Indeed." Deepwater chuckled. "And did Professor Dumbledore tell you to expect this?"

Winslow shrugged. "He might have mentioned it, actually."

Deepwater nodded. "What exactly was it the Professor wanted from you, Miss Winslow?"

"Nothing of importance. He wanted to hear about an old prophecy of mine."

"What was the prophecy about?"

Winslow uncrossed her legs again and answered, casually, "His love life. Former lovers, past lovers, his future happiness..." She trailed off. "I don't think you'd be interested in the details."

"Of course," Deepwater laughed and then let his eyes wander over her body with such intensity that Byron thought he might be looking through her skin right down to her bones. He knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that gaze and, boy, was it unpleasant. All your secrets dragged out into the cold light of this office, unpacked from dark boxes in darker corners by the single power of those eyes.

In her seat, Winslow stiffened. "I don't think you should be trying to read my mind, Sir. There are a lot of things in there you'd rather not know about. I'm not quite right in the head, you see?"

Byron's eyes shot from one person to the other, like a Snitch bouncing off walls. He'd heard rumours that Deepwater was efficient in the art of Legilimency, but he'd never thought any of them to be true. This day was full of surprises.

"I think you're perfectly fine in the head, Miss Winslow," Deepwater argued, his voice soft and all the more dangerous for it. "But I think you're getting in it with the wrong people."

Winslow suddenly seemed to grow several inches where she sat, her spine stick-straight, her chin raised, her eyes defiant. "I know perfectly well what I am doing, thank you very much, Sir. Now if you don't mind, I believe it's my right to leave, seeing as I've committed no crime."

She rose from her seat, unceremoniously, almost knocking it over in her haste to leave. Halfway to the door, she paused suddenly, seemed to ponder something and then turned towards the men once more. "Good day, Sir."

Byron watched her leave, dumbfounded, and then faced his superior who was sitting at his desk, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed like a miracle that his teeth were not bursting from the sheer pressure. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. "Well... I'll... best be leaving, too. Good night, Sir."

Byron was half sprinting from the room, before Deepwater could get the idea of suspending him for ruining their mission.


	3. Chapter Two - Chestnut Grove

**CHAPTER TWO**

 **Chestnut Grove**

Byron had the distinct feeling that he should not let Winslow go home.

She looked younger than she was sitting at his desk, her legs so short they didn't even reach down to the floor. There were runs in her stockings and she'd missed three buttons while doing up her dress. Maybe it was this that had made him stay in Deepwater's office before – Winslow's obvious softness inspired a sense of protectiveness in him he was unfamiliar with. It reminded him all too much of insipid Gryffindor valour.

"Can you take her?" he asked Bilius, leaning against his partner's desk, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Please?"

Bilius looked up, his thick glasses enlarging his eyes to a comical sight. "Oh. Well." His eyes flicked towards Winslow once. "Why don't we take her home?"

"After Ronan..." In lieu of an apology, Byron had told Bilius the truth the moment they'd left Deepwater's office. There was no real reason not to, after all. "I don't think it's a good idea to leave her alone."

Less than convinced, Bilius said, "I can't take her, Tilly would kill me. It's hard with the little ones, you know..."

Byron knew why Bilius didn't want Winslow in his house, and a very small, very troubling part of him understood. Bilius was scared of the girl, of those powers that they couldn't understand or explain. They lived in a world of magic, but even that magic had its limits. Borders of what was possible existed and people like Winslow – seers, legilimency and whatever else might exist in the wide world – breached those borders, reached for the stars, grasped them and pulled them from the skies. It was chilling to think of the people on the outskirts of the possible.

Of course Bilius, who couldn't walk past a gnome's lair without spitting three times, wouldn't want her in his house. He was too superstitious.

"I can't have her staying at mine," Byron said, "it's not proper."

It was a half truth. He did know that neither his landlady nor Zelda would appreciate it very much if he had a strange girl sleeping over at his place. But he also didn't like the way Winslow looked at him: there was a kind of clarity to her eyes that scared him. Like they were saying, over and over again, _You're not fooling me. I know who you are._

A twinkling appeared in Bilius' eyes that Byron did not like at all. Mischievous like a Gnome right before it bit your finger bloody. "Listen here, laddie, I hate to play this card but: Your mistake, your problem."

Byron groaned. It was a general, if unwritten rule in the Aurors' Department, one that they passed from hand to hand like the Daily Prophets they shared in the morning. If you made the mess, you clean it up. Bill and he had never been quite as strict with it as most of the other pairs. But then again their methods had always been considered rather unorthodox.

He admitted defeat with a slight nod. "Alright," he said. "I'll let her stay at my place. But if Mrs Alton throws me out, I'm moving in with you."

Bill smiled and their previous impingement was forgotten. "You know you're always welcome with us, son. Now. Time to get home to the Missus, eh?" He grabbed his hat from his desk and slung his coat over his arm. "Can't keep her waiting forever."

He passed Byron with an affectionate pat to the shoulder. "Tell her I said hello," Byron called after him, watching his retreating form.

Bilius didn't turn but raised a hand in a wave and called back, "Will do, son. Will do!"

"I like him," Winslow said. Byron faced her, just in time to watch as she made one of the ink pots on his desk sprout legs and perform an Irish jig. She was smiling, amused as ink began to splash over the sides, jostled by the rocky movement, and splattered the documents spread out across his workspace with dark puddles.

He sighed, tipped his wand against the edge of the pot and murmured Finito. The dance ended, the legs disappeared and the ink pot was again just an ordinary ink pot. "Don't play with my things," he said, "We're going."

She leaned back in his chair, kicking her feet into the air and rocking from side to side. "Where to?" she asked and sounded less interested than one should.

"I'm taking you home with me." It was supposed to be a curt but suave answer, one that answered all her questions before she even asked them. Instead, Byron realised belatedly how wrong it sounded. The tips of his ears felt like they were on fire. "I mean. Well. That's to say... I don't think it's safe for you to go back to your own flat at the moment."

Winslow regarded him with a confusing expression, half suspicion and half acceptance. She said, "What about my sisters?"

Byron had not thought about them before. "I don't think they're in any danger... Ronan was after you."

"He didn't look like a Ronan, you know," she said, suddenly distracted.

"Well, that's only his last name."

"What's his first name?"

"Edward," Byron answered, incredulous that he was actually having this conversation. Hadn't Deepwater mentioned his name before? Likely she hadn't been paying attention.

"Oh." Winslow seemed to ponder this for a moment, as if Byron had revealed something profound to her. "He didn't look like an Edward either."

"Well," Byron mumbled as he leaned across the desk and took the quill she was picking at from her hands. "Lucky him."

Winslow focused her blue eyes on him and the look seemed to reach all the way down to his marrow. "I think," she told him, "we shouldn't leave my sisters alone."

For the first time, Byron felt as though maybe he understood Winslow. He'd not leave his family unprotected in this situation either. He nodded, grimly, and conceded, "I'll have someone watch the house. Alright?"

"Yes." Winslow stood up, as if this was what she'd waited for to be ready to leave. Byron realised that he'd been part of a negotiation and he hadn't even noticed. Winslow, he decided, was a lot more cunning than she looked.

They left the office, Byron waving goodbye to no one in particular. After exiting the lift, as they passed through the atrium, past stragglers and the unlucky few on night shift, he thought how strange it was.

6"4, impeccably dressed and black skinned, Byron was used to drawing attention wherever he went. Now, nobody seemed to spare him a single look. He wasn't sure what exactly it was about Winslow that commanded such interest but she certainly drew looks. The last few stragglers of the day turned, the unlucky souls arriving for their nightshifts lowered wands or newspapers, brows furrowed. Maybe it was the far-away look in her eyes or it was the skip in her step that might have appeared debonair to the unlearned eye. Maybe it was her all-together otherness.

Or maybe, Byron thought and, suddenly self aware, retracted his hand from her back, it was the fact that she was leaving the Ministry with him. Alone. It was almost enough to make him blush, certainly enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He could not afford to give anyone the wrong impression.

"Where do you live?" Winslow asked as they had crossed half-way through the atrium. She was laughing jollily at the house elf on the Fountain of Magical Brethren and the water streaming from its pointed ears.

"Chestnut Grove," he mumbled, seizing her arm and preparing to disapparate. It still seemed rather unsafe to him that the Ministry allowed people to apparate right into their headquarters, but he didn't make the rules.

"Where's that?"

"Belgravia," he answered. He saw her eyes widen, her mouth open and then they were pressed through what seemed like the tight tube of time and space and appeared right on his doorstep. Winslow stumbled, her elbow knocking into his ribcage. Blindly, he steadied her with one hand while unlocking his door with the other, using his wand to do so.

22 Chestnut Grove was a large house. Though not very broad, it stretched over six stories, the facade covered almost entirely in stucco figurines. To Muggles passing the house, they looked like angels, demons, characters from that Bible they were so fond off. But to wizards, their true faces were revealed. Dragons and mermaids and goblins and Bowtruckles, all of them grimacing or laughing or dancing, small stone bodies racing up and down the house front at rapid paces. Byron had never been very fond of the Scrabblers. They were vicious little creatures with bat-like wings that liked to spit rainwater at him and sometimes crawled into his coat pockets. He'd awoken many mornings with teeth-marks in his toes before he'd gotten a hang of how to avoid them.

Winslow was gawking, her eyes all but glued to the display in front of her and Byron could hardly blame her. There was a certain kind of magic to 22 Chestnut Grove that it never lost, not even after he'd lived there for five years. It was the reason he'd picked it, after Hogwarts. Just a few feet from them, the magnificent chestnut trees that had given the street its name were reaching into the dark skies, their branches naked. In spring, when the first lush green of leaves sprung from the wood and their blossoms burned white and red, they were enough to take Byron's breath away. He loved this place, more than he'd ever loved the house of his childhood, barely two streets away.

"Please," he said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand to invite Winslow inside. Slyly, he picked a Scrabbler from her hair, avoiding its sharp teeth and placing it on a window ledge with a stern look. Winslow didn't seem to notice. He ushered her over the threshold, limiting their contact as much as possible. Nothing but the tips of his fingers pressing to her spine over the fabric of her coat. Each point of contact felt like a safety hazard. As if whatever strangeness it was this girl carried inside of her might seep into Byron if he only touched her for too long.

They entered the house. All the lamps were extinguished and only the light they carried with them from the street illuminated their steps. It was too early for Mrs Alton to have gone to bed, so she must have been out, probably visiting her son in Surrey. Byron swung his wand, muttered a spell and lit the lamps on the walls. Gentle light settled over the room, bathed the old furniture and the soft carpets and the floral cushions of the sofas in a golden glow like the first rays of sunshine in the early morning, only without any of their cruelty.

To his left, a loud clamour sounded, and then the jittery calls of Eames followed. Excited, scared, resentful.

"Hey, Eames," Byron greeted, "it's just me."

He liked watching this: Winslow blinked at the room in confusion, searching for the source of the voice, then looked even more confused when she found it. Mounted to the wall was a painting, most likely mid-sixteenth century, large as a dining table. It was a gloomy picture, not at all inviting and cosy as the rest of the room was. A background held in swirling shades of black, a settee not much lighter in colour than the black and reclining on it, coolly, the white of its bone almost shocking against the dark tones, a skeleton.

Only, Eames was not very fond of being called that. He preferred 'former man', even though Byron couldn't see how that was any better.

"Oh. Trelawney. Thought it was a burglar." There was a hint of disappointment in Eames' voice, but Byron chose to ignore this. "Who'd you bring there?" The skeleton leaned forward, as if to see better. This made no sense whatsoever as the skull was missing eyes and it was a mystery to Henry how Eames could see at all.

"My name's Rosie," Winslow introduced herself, recovered from her previous bafflement and back to her bouncy self. It seemed a hard thing to render this girl speechless for longer than five seconds. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Ah, a lady visitor." Eames crossed his arms - this resulted in the unpleasant sound of cracking joints and bones rubbing together drily - and leaned back in his seat. His face twisted into what Byron assumed was a dirty grin. A shiver ran down his spine. "How scandalous."

Winslow was chuckling but Byron grit his teeth. "Miss Winslow has to stay here for a while. It'd be much appreciated if you wouldn't mention this to Mrs Alton. Can we agree on that?"

Eames cast a look at Rosie as if his answer was written on the skin of her collarbone. Byron stiffened. Usually he liked Eames, even if he could be a little crude at times. Then again he'd never actually had to deal with his lack of gentility before. Was it ridiculous to feel ashamed for a painting's behaviour? Most likely. He did so anyway.

"What do I get out of it?"

Byron bit back a sigh. "I'll talk to Mistress White for you. Lay in a good word?"

Mistress White was a ghoul in a painting of rather questionable quality, banished to the darkest corner of the attic. There it had been collecting cobwebs for years. Eames and Mistress White were friends if Byron understood. But recently they had locked horns over some trivial matter and now Mistress White refused to visit any other paintings. She'd limited herself to the confines of her own picture frame and the moor depicted on it. These days she only interacted with the outside world through horrible, anguished screams that had awarded Byron with several sleepless nights.

"Hmm." Eames considered, then nodded. "Alright, good Sir. My lips are sealed."

Byron wanted to thank him but a squeaking sound caught him off guard, shrill and sudden and almost comical. He blinked, puzzled, and turned to Winslow. The sound turned out to be her hysteric laughter. She seemed to be close to doubling over with it.

"What..." he considered for a moment if he wanted to know but then his curiosity got the best of him. "What's so funny?"

"He said... well..." Winslow was trying to rein her laughter in and failing, a hand pressed to her mouth and one to her abdomen as if she could force the sounds back inside of her. "You see it's... it's funny because he doesn't have any lips."

Byron didn't know what to say. He didn't even know what he had expected when he'd asked. Probably something that was actually funny and not, well, this.

"That's rather rude," Eames said and somehow he managed to frown, even without a forehead. "Remember what Shakespeare said, my Lady. 'Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.' Wait until you don't have lips anymore and some scrawny thing dressed like a gutter rat reminds you of it like you just did. Not very nice, indeed."

Byron had no idea who Shakespeare was, but he did know that he didn't appreciate his guests being insulted by house portraits. Even if those guests were scrawny and dressed like a gutter rat. What did gutter rats even wear? Did they wear anything? In hindsight, the comparison might be a little lacking.

But Winslow, Winslow who might have laughed and shook Eames' comment off and continued on with her night and her way and her life, Winslow gasped and the sound was filled with such genuine horror that it might have touched a tougher man than Byron. "I'm sorry," she apologized and there was nothing contrived about it. "I really am. I didn't mean to insult you. I can get so clumsy sometimes, I just..." Her words fell short, her mouth drew into a sharp line and she lowered her gaze. Her arms crept around her own torso as if she had to hold herself together. "I'm sorry."

Eames dismissed the apology with a flick of his wrist bone, turning his head away. "You're not the first inconsiderate person I've met, no, you're not. Happens all the time. People think I've got no feelings just because I'm dead, well, listen here..."

Byron didn't have the stomach to digest Eames' ramblings, not tonight. Besides, they seemed cruel to him after Winslow had already apologized. It was more than obvious that she was sincere.

He steered her towards the staircase that let up to his flat on the third floor and muttered, "Don't pay him any mind. He gets cranky sometimes."

There was something grateful in her eyes when she looked at him and Byron turned away. He concentrated on climbing the stairs without stumbling.

They reached his door and he unlocked it, ready to be done with this day. The truth was that Byron had been ready for the day to be over when he'd gotten out of bed this morning. The constant downward slope of events he'd encountered had only confirmed that going back to sleep instead of leaving the comfort of his blankets would have been a good idea.

"You can take my bed," he offered, shedding his coat and hanging it up neatly. "I'll sleep on the sofa."

He expected a thank you, but Winslow didn't seem to have heard him. She was turning on the spot, examining the hallway. For a moment, white-hot embarrassment shot through Byron. He was a Trelawney and his flat should have mirrored the importance of that name. Instead it was just short of dingy. But then she said, an awed quality to her voice, "It's incredible."

Confused, Byron turned to look at his home. Two rooms, a tiny kitchen and a tinier bathroom. Dark green wallpaper interlaced with silvery stars the size of a fingernail, portraits of family members - thankfully all sleeping - on the walls and dark furniture he'd gotten at a sell-out price. A bachelor's pad without much decorum or inviting qualities. Byron could not see what was incredible about it.

"Well." He cleared his throat. "Thank you. Can I take your coat?"

Winslow nodded and shrugged the jacket off for Byron to take. Without being invited to, she strolled into the hall, bending close to the paintings to study them, hands locked at her back. Byron watched for a moment, failing to see why she was so interested in his home. He felt uncomfortable with the close examination, but also flattered at her interest.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, hanging up her coat.

"Hmm?" Winslow looked up from where she was tracing the golden foot of a lamp. "Oh, no. Thank you."

Byron hid his relief. Most likely there was nothing in the house for her to eat anyway. Byron's life consisted of garbled down toast - often of questionable condition - and whatever kind of confectionary someone in the office had graciously provided. He had his meals standing up, between tasks, allowing himself only a moment of respite before his fingers left sticky-sweet marks on whatever report he was reading at the moment. He didn't think he had ever provided himself with a homemade dinner. He wasn't even sure how to go about starting to now. Good thing that Winslow didn't force him to.

"You can take my bed," he repeated, as she hadn't heard him before and opened the door to his bedroom. Blanching a little, Byron made a few frantic stabs with his wand. The clothes that had been strewn all over the floor found their way back into his closet, folded into neat squares. Byron was a neat person but he'd been so tired the past few days that he hadn't managed to clean at all. Now he could feel the blood rushing into his cheeks as Winslow squeezed past him. His bed was still unmade and a few stray socks littered the floor.

He cleared his throat. "I'll change this for you," he muttered, tapping his wand against his bed sheets to exchange them for new ones. Then he bent down to collect the socks into his arms, balling them up and depositing them in a drawer. Who cared that they probably needed washing?

Even Winslow looked out of her depth now, her hair hiding half of her face and her shoulders taut. Byron realised that she'd most likely never been in a man's bedroom before. The whole situation was more than inappropriate and he felt dirty, tense and sorry for her.

"Uhm." Byron didn't know what to say. He put his hands on his hips and let his eyes trace over the austere planes of his bedroom. The white sheets, the scratchy grey wool of his comforter, the single chair in a corner that caused back pains like it had been built with that exact reason in mind. Shame made him swallow. "I'll lend you some pyjamas."

He avoided looking at her as he pulled open a cupboard of his dressers and dug through it. But Winslow's presence in the room was like a fire, spreading waves of heat all the way to where he was standing. Even when trying to, he couldn't ignore her. Couldn't be casual and cool and calm and collected, could be none of the things he fancied himself to be defined by.

Finally he found a pair of pyjamas his aunt Polly had gifted him last Christmas. Ivory silk with green stripes. The only piece of sleepwear he seemed to own that did not have any holes in it. Byron was meticulous about his appearance, but only in situations where people would see him, would take notice of the way he dressed. And as he was alone at night, darning the holes seemed too much of a hassle. Especially because Byron wasn't very good with household magic. He'd always concentrated on the more aggressive aspects of magic, claiming they were more useful. Seemed his arrogance was coming back to bite him now.

"These okay?"

Winslow accepted the pyjamas, small fingers curling into the fabric like she was cradling the handle of a knife. "Yes," she confirmed, nodding. "Thank you."

She must have thanked him a hundred times in the past few minutes, that was all Byron could think. It felt like they were standing very close to each other, even separated by the bed as they were. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were very wide.

Byron swallowed. "Well." His voice was loud in the silence of the room and he didn't know what to say. "Good night?"

"Good night," Winslow echoed, pressing the pyjamas to her stomach. It looked almost like she was trying to shield herself. Byron envied her the pretence of protection. He felt exposed, somehow. Vulnerable.

Here was this strange girl, standing where he wouldn't even allow his parents. In the middle of his room, in the heart of his life, in a private place when he didn't even like her. It seemed dangerous, like he was letting her see him in a light no one else had ever witnessed. Like he was handing her the leverage that would bring him down.

"Right," Byron said, senselessly, and fled the room.

In the living room, he swung his wand to prepare a make-shift bed on the sofa that would definitely be too short for his long legs. Then, fingers shaking, he went to make himself a cup of tea. As Byron put on the kettle, he tried to calm himself. He'd managed, hadn't he? This day was over and tomorrow Winslow would be gone, out of his life and never returning. What was there left to feel anxious about?

The bedroom door opened suddenly, just a smidge, and Winslow's head appeared through the crack. If her expression was anything to go by, at least she was feeling as rattled as he did.

"Excuse me," she said, "do you have some soap for me?"

Byron nodded, stunted only slightly. "I'll... yes, I'll have a look around."

Winslow nodded, giving him a smile intended to show her gratitude. It ended up looking unsettled in a haggard way.

The bathroom was at the back of the flat and once there, Byron rooted through all of his drawers, movements unsteady and his mind on other things. He knocked the glass he kept his tooth brush in over and had to kneel amid the shards to repair it. At the end he couldn't tell how long he'd been searching for a bar of soap when he finally remembered that he'd used the very last bit of it that morning giving himself a cat lick bent over the sink.

He groaned and rose from where he'd been kneeling in the shower, cleaning invisible dust off his trousers. It was evidence of his neurotic streaks that he silently practiced how exactly he'd reveal to Winslow that he was not only a bad host but also a disaster of a human being. He opened the door, midway to telling her he hadn't found any soap when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Winslow was standing by the window and framed by the heavy curtains, changing into the pyjamas, her dress already off. Byron saw only the flash of her pale back in the low light, the dusting of freckles on her shoulders, the slant of her spine. The moonlight painted her skin silver and blue, soft and liquid and blurred, illuminated and shadowed in equal parts. Like something from a dream, some kind of creature cloaked in mercury, cloaked in the light of stars.

For the split second that he looked at her, it felt like the moment after waking, that one blissful moment where everything was gentle and nothing was real.  
Then he tore his gaze away, stumbled to turn his back. An apology stuttered its way past his lips as he hastened from the room for a second time. He slammed the door shut, leaning against it. He breathed heavily, shocked, and tried his best to forget the look in her wide eyes as she'd spotted him. Tried to forget the shirt she'd pressed to her chest to cover herself and the exposed plane of her body.

Byron shook his head, clenching his fists. There was no reason for him to be so insipid about this, he was hardly fourteen anymore. It was just, he tried to explain himself, like a man put on trial, that he was embarrassed about having intruded on her in this way. His mother had raised him better. He made a mental note that from now on, he ought to knock.

"Mr Trelawney?" At the sound of her voice, he jumped away from the door moments before it opened, saving himself a tumble to the floor. Then he took a few more steps backwards, until he stood with his back pressed to the wall. Safety distance. He remembered how he'd kept from touching her downstairs and decided that might be a necessary precaution.

Winslow looked timid, embarrassed. Her hair was down and brushed out for bed, falling around her shoulders. Distantly, he wondered where she found the brush. She was wearing the pyjama he had laid out for her and her cheeks were tinged with the pink hue of embarrassment.

It was strange to call her Winslow when she looked like this. She was softer now than the peculiar spectre of a girl he'd met in that alleyway today. Less edges, more flowers, round and pliable and hazy at the corners. Rosie, he remembered. She'd wanted him to call her Rosie and that was exactly what she looked like. Her feet were bare and her toes curling against the coldness of the floor. Her eyes were wide and her mouth relaxed.

Byron could feel his cheeks burning. "I don't have any..." he trailed off, disoriented, confused. Did it even matter now? "Soap. I don't have any soap. I'm sorry."

"That's... alright." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Silence spread around them, so thick it felt like he could slice through it with a knife. Byron couldn't recall the last time he'd felt so awkward. And even Winslow, stoically oblivious as she was, seemed uncomfortable.

He broke the silence, more out of obligation than because he really had anything to say. "Uhm, I..." He grasped for words, looking anywhere but at her. "I'm... sorry. I should have knocked."

"It's fine. Don't worry." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and Byron caught himself following the movement, transfixed. Immediately, he tore his gaze away, burying his hands in his pockets. Ridiculous.

Again, neither of them seemed to know what to say and Byron did his best not to look at her. Why did he have the strong feeling that he was moving on very thin ice here?

It was the kettle that saved him, the loud whistling alerting him that the water was boiling. Byron had forgotten he'd even put it on but now he felt eternally indebted to the sound.

"Would you like a cup of tea too?" he asked her.  
Byron would never admit it, but when she shook her head he bit back an actual sigh of relief and nodded instead. "Alright," he said, as civilly as he could muster, "goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Mr Trelawney." The girl paused. "Thank you very much."

"Yes, well..." Byron tugged at a piece of the wallpaper that was coming lose, his fingertips tracing the coarse material as if there was some hidden message written there in Braille. "You're welcome."

He turned and left.

.

It was the sound of breaking glass that woke Byron.

Disoriented, half asleep and all but blind in the dark, he scrambled from the bed, the blanket tangled in a death grip around his legs and nearly sanding him face-down to the floor. He couldn't see but he knew well enough just where he'd left his wand and had it grasped between his trembling fingers in a heartbeat. Auror's instincts, he thought with a strange air of complacency. The tip of the wand lit up at his command, pale light creeping across the floor, painting grotesque shadows on the walls and washing out the dark oak of his furniture.

Byron blinked against the sudden shift of lighting and found himself alone in his room. It took him a moment to realise that the sound had come from the living room.

On bare feet, in only his pyjamas, he stumbled from his room. Byron listed off all the points of defence he'd been taught during his Auror training as he shouldered open the door to the living room. Wand extended. Body turned sideways. Ready for anything. Breathing slow.

He assessed the scene in front of him the same way he'd examine a crime scene – sober head and steady heart. It didn't matter that this was his home and it didn't matter that his stomach was clenching with fear. He was an Auror. No room for weakness.

The light radiating from his wand illuminated the vines of silver ivy woven into the fabric of his carpet. As Byron moved, cautiously, further into the room, the light spread to the velvet tassels on his sofa, across the stone of the fire place and finally reached a pair of bare feet by the window. For a second, the light looked so soft it seemed almost to caress the pale ankles. Byron's eyes traced upwards, inches of naked skin from toes curling against the wooden floors to things hidden only partially by his borrowed shirt. He felt strangely breathless.

Winslow stood, framed on either side by heavy curtains, in an ocean of green. Shards of glass reflected the light and threw it against the ceiling in prisms of white, shimmering and shifting. He recognised the remains of what had once been a lamp. Most likely its shattering had been the noise that woke him.  
Idly, he reminded himself to fix it later.

Byron cleared his throat and approached the girl, awkward and off balance as Winslow seemed prone to make him. "Miss..." he began, only to trail off when he caught sight of her face.

Though her eyes were trained on him, Winslow seemed to be looking through Byron rather than at him, as if he were made of glass. Her body had gone rigid, shoulders frozen in a lock as unmovable as stone, her unseeing eyes wide as the sky above Hyde Park and entirely unblinking. It gave her a look of otherworldly strangeness.

Byron swallowed heavily.

He'd seen something like this before, when he was younger. His grandmother's visions, which came unannounced like unpleasant relatives visiting suddenly, there one second and gone the next. He remembered Cassandra's almost child-like gasps, hands freezing while dealing cards or knitting scarves. Remembered that one moment when it felt like all the world was holding its breath in unison, waiting with sweaty palms for what it was she saw. And then that moment of near fantastical importance passed and Cassandra shook off her stupor, smiled and returned to her knitting as if nothing had happened. The world heaved an exasperated breath and resumed spinning, as cruelly and unalterably as always.

Byron wondered how it could be that Winslow unsettled him so. Again, he found himself in a position where he just didn't know how to act, what to do. In society, he was known as a very sociable person and girls liked talking to him because he was charming and witty. Byron knew the price of success and he was aware of the skills that would get him there. And, most importantly, he was a skilled wizard. He'd graduated top of his class, he'd finished his Auror training with honours and his superiors had always spoken of him in nothing but the highest tones. _Why then_ , he asked himself, _is it that I turn into a bumbling gnome whenever I'm around Winslow?  
_  
He couldn't even think of how to proceed. With Cassandra, prophecies had been quick affairs: a shock-like state that lasted less than two minutes, a few cryptic words that made sense to no one and excited everyone and then it was back to normal. But no Seer was like the other. They may have seemed alike in certain aspects, but there were all sorts of them, really. Some were overwhelmed, thrown off course by their glimpses into the future, and other sought these glimpse out, chased them, though tarot cards or crystal balls. There were those that felt burdened with a knowledge too heavy for any person to carry and those that relished in the power of it. And then there were those that dabbled in all these things and excelled in none of them, scared and excited by the sheer endlessness of their gift as children are scared and excited in equal measured by the world.

There was no way to tell in which of these categories Winslow fell.

It might be unwise, dangerous even, to rip her from whatever it was she saw. Cassandra would have turned him into a hearth rug or something even less flattering if he'd so much as tried to interrupt one of her episodes.

But Winslow didn't look the way his grandmother did. She lacked Cassandra's regal poise, the calm that came from years of experience. With her hair in braids and his shirt swallowing her frame, she looked small, scared. Like a child caught in the most horrible nightmare.

Byron reached for the girl, his hand shaking more violently than he'd like to admit. "Winslow," he said, gentle, as not to scare her, and touched her cheek with just the tips of his fingers. Her skin was cold underneath his touch, slightly damp, and only now did he see the hair matted to her forehead with sweat, as if she were running a fever. Her pupils were flicking from one side to the other relentlessly and the whites of her eyes were traversed by veins of angry red. She didn't react to his touch.

For a moment, Byron only looked at her. The moonlight that crept though a crack in the curtains washed all colour from her skin until she looked pale as a ghost. She was much too skinny and in the half-dark her cheeks looked sunken in, skin pulled taut over bones. The emerald stripes on his silk pyjamas did nothing for her either, except to give her complexion a greenish tint that made her look like one suffering from Dragon Pox. Byron decided he'd been wrong. Winslow looked nothing like a child. She was the most frightening thing he'd ever seen.

She moved so suddenly that Byron let out a high-pitched scream he would spent the rest of his life denying had come from him.

Winslow gasped and the sound sliced through the silence like a blade through butter. She twirled around, her braids whipping against his shoulders with the movement, and grasped his forearms with a strength that seemed too big for her delicate bones. "Mr Trelawney," she breathed and her voice sounded raspy, strange, like she hadn't used it in years or had left it in whatever place it was her mind had just returned from.

Unsure of what to say, infinitely uncomfortable with their sudden closeness, Byron began, "Miss Winslow..."

"Rosie," she interrupted him, words trembling, and her eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

Byron halted. How did she change so fast? Every frightening thing about her was gone, wiped away like chalk licked from the pavement by a fall of rain. There was nothing in those eyes now except fear. She reminded him of the glass shards scattered around their feet. Beautiful and broken and sharp around the edges. Better not get too close.

But she looked so lost and so scared that Byron forgot, just for a second, that he didn't like her. He said, gingerly, as if the word might cut his tongue bloody, "Rosie."

Her grip around his arms tightened, as if she were moments from falling and he was the only thing holding her upright, keeping her anchored to the earth. "Mr Trelawney," she repeated, "I saw something."

Byron was at a loss. He felt feeble and fraying, overwhelmed with the sudden intimacy of the situation and entirely at his wits' end. He barely knew this girl, Merlin, he didn't even like her, and yet here they stood and she looked at him like her could provide her with the solution to all her problems.

Most of the time, Byron didn't even know what to do about his own problems.

He cleared his throat and squirmed in her vice-like grip. He hadn't ever been this close to a girl, apart from Zelda, but he'd known her for so long and knew her so well that she hardly counted to him anymore. Certainly, Zelda had never looked to him to help her with anything. It was one of the qualities he admired most in her, that stubborn independence she'd give up for nothing in the world.

"Well..." Byron paused. "What did you see."

"I saw..." And then Winslow turned her face to him, her brows furrowed with determination. And everything that had been so shaky about her before was suddenly solid as brick. "Mr Trelawney, I think you'd best step away from the window."

It must have been testimony to just how much Winslow had already out him through in the few hours of their acquaintance that her words didn't even confuse him. All he felt was a touch of mild surprise at her having changed the course of their conversation so quickly. "Step away from the window? Why, in Merlin's name, should I do that?"

Winslow opened her mouth but before she could answer, the world exploded in a blast of white light and hell rained down upon them.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Why are these so looong? I'd love to hear your thoughts and thanks to anyone who's reading this, I hope you enjoy!


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